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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25534228">When Magic Happens</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13'>LadyAJ_13</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Endeavour (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Magic, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Magical Realism, Mild Language, Season/Series 02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:49:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,097</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25534228</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter frowns as a tingle of magic washes over him. It's oddly… curious. It nudges at his own, like it wants to play, but then skitters away, hopping across his desk and onto the floor and - it disappears in the bustle of the busy station.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Jakes &amp; Endeavour Morse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>When Magic Happens</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fandom has many epic magical realism stories but I couldn't face another long project! So when I decided to give it a go I wanted to make it a little snippet, and actually managed to keep it small. This is my 50th (!) Endeavour fic, I hope you enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Peter frowns as a tingle of magic washes over him. It’s not unfriendly, and that’s the only reason he doesn’t shut the room down at once, because unfriendly magic would mean a whole heap of trouble. But this is oddly… curious. It nudges at his own, like it wants to play, but then skitters away, hopping across his desk and onto the floor and - it disappears in the bustle of the busy station. He’s on his feet, half-way to chasing it down, and rifles through the nearest filing cabinet as a cover before wandering back to his desk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A child, maybe? Or a teenager? But there’s no one that young in the vicinity, and the magic had felt oddly familiar, like a face from your past suddenly appearing before you in adulthood. Known, but not. Except he doesn’t know any children. It was new, that’s for sure, a magic unused to itself and running unchecked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No one else is reacting, and he observes the rest of the team carefully while running his hands over his desk and belongings. His pack of cigarettes fizzes at his touch - he picks it up and peers inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eight cigarettes. He only had one left half an hour ago.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulls one of the new ones out and inspects it closely, before flicking his lighter and drawing a puff of smoke. It hums with the trace of magic not his own, but otherwise it’s a perfectly normal cigarette.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Okay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He keeps his face carefully blank and lowered over an arson report while he sends his own magic out to explore. No one at the station knows of his mage status; not that he’s ashamed of it, but species is something people just tend not to discuss. Not for any bigotry reason, but because the little differences and quirks hardly seem worth spending time on. Just as no one would boast of having one foot slightly larger than the other, or feel the need to announce they can waggle their ears, so too does species status tend to fade into the background - at least when you leave childhood and its oversharing culture behind. Various governmental species boards like to release surveys and estimates of their population share, and it’s how he knows mages are relatively rare - but without any kind of registration it’s impossible to know for certain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wonders, sometimes, about the other officers. Just idle thoughts - he imagines most people do it, even if they never talk about it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thursday, he’s pretty sure, is as human as they come - but he hasn’t let that hold him back. He uses the no-nonsense attitude and stubbornness, and it makes him immovable as a building when he wants to be. He’s got an iron belief in himself that Jakes rather envies, and he thinks it must stem from the utter solidity of humankind. The great survivors. They walk through the world with one hand behind their backs and still come out swinging.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bright, he’s always guessed, has something of a pixie about him. People tend to overlook and then find themselves bested by the head of CID, without ever quite knowing what happened. Pixies get a bit of a bad rep in the old story books - small and mischievous, trouble makers - but he’s always had a healthy respect for a species that can hoodwink as easily as breathe, and once Bright settled in as their boss, they couldn’t be in better hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse though. He’s a difficult one. He’d thought elf, to begin with. The superiority complex, the intelligence, the strange, delicate looks that easily turn the susceptible. But then Morse had mellowed, and if anything, he’d have expected an elf to turn haughtier as he proved himself time and again, solving case after case. Morse has an ego, sure, but he also has a streak of empathy that doesn’t quite tally with elfkind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d run the gamut after that. Vampire, fae, shapeshifter - but what self-respecting shapeshifter would look as rumpled as Morse does every morning? He’d even spent a week wondering on werewolf after seeing him actually accept Strange’s offers of friendship - the one man at the station open with his species status. But then he’d remembered Morse turning white at bloody crime scenes and figured - maybe not.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hair on his right arm rises. His magic tugs at him, urgently, and he swings to his feet and out the room and down the corridor, it growing stronger at every turn - it’s found the fizzing, sparking source of new magic. Whoever it is has no idea. No control, and it must be uncomfortable - even if it doesn't seem dangerous - to have their magic scampering around unchecked and exposed. He can offer some tips, maybe take them to the bookstore and pick up a copy of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Magical Control</span>
  </em>
  <span>, which was a lifeline for him, trying to learn all this alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mages are rare for a reason, see. They’re created, not born, not like so many species. Mages come out of struggle, manifesting magic where it’s needed, a protection for the individual that can then go on to protect the many. It’s no puzzler why he became a police officer. Most mages end up in some kind of helping profession - the hospitals fair glow with the side effects of healing magics.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The source of this magic has headed for safe ground, he thinks, climbing the stairs. The nick gets quieter the further up you go, and his magic is pulling him right to the top, right out and onto the roof, right up to - </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, that’s not right. Mages are made, but this is new magic. Mages manifest as children, or teens - Morse can’t be more than a couple of years younger than him. And he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> Morse. Not like he knows the itch of this new magic, but in the way he has known him for years, and there’s never been magic pooled around him the way - the way it is now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse twitches, but doesn’t turn round. He stares out across the Oxford skyline. Peter gathers his own magic around him tightly, like he used to do as a child when it first came into being. Tugging it around his shoulders like a blanket, until he could hide from the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How did you - did you do that? Pull - pull it back? Is that you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” There seems little point in hiding it. Either Morse is a mage or there’s someone else hidden on this barren, windswept rooftop, and even untrained mages can sense magic. “What happened?” he asks again. Something must have. He’s never heard of magic manifesting this late. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The straw that broke the back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d never say he was friends with Morse. They’re colleagues, that’s all. But over the months he’s gotten used to him, better the devil you know and all that, and there’s been a strange kind of kinship threaded through. Morse has darkness in him, that’s always been plain to see, and the mage in him can’t help but empathise with that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your father died,” he remembers. He’d forgotten. In everything else - in Morse getting shot and shipped out to County to recover. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To his surprise, Morse laughs. “It wasn’t that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then - what? The injury? Or something in that stretch at County - but Morse just shakes his head, still staring at Oxford’s dreaming spires. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I never heard of someone manifesting in adulthood.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re an expert, are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.” He resists the urge to scuff his feet on the ground. Morse still refuses to look at him, and it’s a struggle to hold his magic tight. If he let his control go now, though - he doesn’t know what it’ll do. It might grab Morse, bend him round until they can have a proper fucking conversation, because if he’s manifested he’s not fucking okay, and Peter’s not okay either because now there’s another mage in front of him and something in him </span>
  <em>
    <span>needed</span>
  </em>
  <span> that but it had to be this one, it had to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>Morse</span>
  </em>
  <span> who won’t even fucking look at him. “Know more about it than you, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse shrugs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just once, accept you’re not the cleverest.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse snorts. “Alright,” he mumbles eventually, and Peter actually takes a step back. “Whatever,” he adds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter rolls his eyes and lights a cigarette. “Could teach you a coupla things. If you wanted. Must be tiring, having it run rampant.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m alright.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes blows smoke at his head, following it up with a little push of magic to make sure it envelopes him, circles round to get in his face, because he’s feeling like a bastard and he can. Because he’s got control. Morse waves it away with a hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You love it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your magic does. I only had one left, now I’ve got nearly a whole pack.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse turns, finally, looking at him. He brandishes the pack at Morse. He must be able to feel the tingle of his own magic all over it. “It made them for me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It must be defective.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fancy learning a bit of that control now, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse folds his arms, and shifts from foot to foot, but he meets Peter’s eyes. His magic curls around their feet, no longer playful but tense and fractious. He feels his own want to respond - to soothe, to comfort. He keeps it gripped in an iron fist and drags on his cigarette instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do I have to?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Learn control?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse nods.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. But it won’t get better on its own. It could go anywhere. Do anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re saying I'm dangerous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magic is meant to be a protection. It’s meant to help heal its mage, keep them safe. Morse seems disconnected from his, like he’d rather cut it loose entirely. Peter can’t imagine being without magic now; it’d be like being naked on St Giles’. He lets it looser, feels it flow around him like a shield, and frowns when it nudges at the edges of Morse’s. But he doesn’t pull it back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everyone is dangerous in their own way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s a book,” he says finally, when the silence has stretched on and his cigarette has burned down to his fingers. He drops it and grinds it out. “I know you like your books. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Magical Control</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you can get it from any shop.” He turns to go; it’s cold on the roof and Morse clearly doesn’t want his help. He’s a book learner anyway, a gown, he’ll pick it up. And if he doesn’t - well, that’s his problem.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jakes!” he hears, just as he reaches the door. At the same time, that familiar magic scampers over, tugging at his trouser legs like a puppy. He can’t help a small smile at feeling it happier again, but makes sure to hide it from Morse, stifle it before turning round again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry. Thank you. I’ll get that book.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His expression, fixed and stern, is so at odds with the way his magic twines around Jakes’ ankles. They’re both aware of it, and he wonders how long they’ll be able to ignore it. He wonders what, exactly, it means that he’d like to let his own magic go - let them play together, whether it might make Morse crack a smile for once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Morse repeats, reddening.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter gives in, and laughs. “The book will help. But - ask me. If you have questions.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I don’t-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll get a drink or something, maybe you’ll be able to talk like a person when you’ve got some alcohol in you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is this you making friends?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t count on it.” He softens his words with an arm around the neck, dragging Morse back through the door and giving him a light push towards the stairs. It’s the most physical they’ve ever been with each other, but feels oddly right. Like their limbs are just an extension of the way their magics brush, like they know each other far better than before a murderer and a gunshot and a stint in the sticks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The office is exactly the same as they left it; weak sunshine burnishing the wooden furniture to a golden shine. He dumps his cigarettes back on his desk, then sticks the kettle on for a round of tea. He drops one off with Thursday, and another with Strange. Then he puts one on Morse’s desk, and hesitates, briefly, letting his magic seep into Morse’s chair, up until it hovers and calms the still half-wild pulses of Morse’s young power. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Morse says, taking the cup with a small nod.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Any time.”</span>
</p>
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